Page 96 of Scarred Savages
Playing house for the next three years, then what?
What happened last night, I can’t pretend I didn’t participate enthusiastically. If I’m honest, there’s something about Axel—about all of them—that calls to something primal inside me.
Even Damien, with his permanent scowl and cutting words.
“Fuck,” I whisper, dropping my head into my hands. That’s a complication I don’t need. The guy practically radiates hostility whenever I’m in the room—this morning proved that well enough.
Maybe because underneath his asshole exterior, I’ve glimpsed something else. The pain that mirrors my own, a brokenness I recognize all too well.
Or maybe I’m just a masochist who’s attracted to men who treat me like shit.
A twig snaps somewhere to my left, jolting me from my thoughts. I freeze, listening—another snap, followed by a low murmur of voices.
I’m not alone.
I slide off the log, tiptoeing toward the sound. The voices grow clearer. One is definitely male, with a familiar deep timbre.
Damien.
I should turn around.
Whatever he’s doing in the woods is none of my business. But my feet carry me forward, stepping carefully over fallen branches and soft moss. The voices lead me to a small clearing where sunlight streams through a gap in the canopy.
I peek around a thick oak trunk, and the air seizes in my lungs.
Damien stands naked, but he’s not alone.
A tall naked woman with cascading red hair stands beside him. Her back is to me, but I can see enough of her profile to clock her as gorgeous: flawless skin, curves in all the right places, and no scars.
Perfect.
She’s fucking perfect for him.
Everything I’m not.
They’re standing close to each other.
My stomach twists into a knot so tight I can barely breathe.
She laughs at something he says.
Something hot and ugly rises in my chest, clawing its way up my throat. My vision tunnels until I can see her hand on his body. The roaring in my ears drowns out the birdsong, replaced by the thundering of my pulse.
My wolf is furious, a snarl echoing in my chest.
Mine, she growls.
I clamp my hand over my mouth, but it’s too late to stifle it completely—a low sound bubbles up from deep within—not quite a hiss or a sob.
What the hell?
We have no claim on Damien.
He’s made it crystal clear he despises me. So why does watching him with this woman make me want to tear her face off?
My hands curl into fists, nails digging into my palms with sharp points of pain. Except the pain is wrong—deeper, stranger.
I look down and gasp.
